


Be A Good Boy, Brahms

by Spinning_In_Infinity



Category: The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: AFAB!reader, Because it's fun, Elements of Dub-Con, F/M, Fingering, Forced Handjob, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, brahms gets a bath, minor stockholm syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28053594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_In_Infinity/pseuds/Spinning_In_Infinity
Summary: Post-movie. Running from your own demons, you uncover those lurking within the Heelshire Mansion and the strange, lonely man living in the walls.(This was originally posted as a Brahms x Greta fic, but then I got into the Slasher x Reader game and decided to rejig it. New plot chapters for the reader.)
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Reader, Brahms Heelshire/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

Brahms Heelshire lies on the rug of his childhood bedroom, the sharp end of the screwdriver burning deep agony into his abdomen. His mask clings, half-shattered, to his mangled skin, his vision blurred with tears of pain, anger and betrayal, as he watches Greta run away from him.

He tried his best to be good for her, he really had. He listened as she whispered to the doll – how she would never leave him, but she needed his help in getting rid of the bad man who wanted to hurt her. And he’d done it; come out of the walls, his one refuge from the world that saw him as a monster. Even his parents couldn’t bear the sight of him, choosing instead to love a lifeless puppet, since his very existence was abhorrent to them.

He wouldn’t even have hurt Malcolm had he not touched Greta the way he did, the way Brahms longed to touch her. How dare a _grocery boy_ touch what his parents had given to _him_? She was _his_. He remembered the panic he’d felt upon stepping through the mirror and witnessing the horror on her face. She’d always been so tender and caring towards his porcelain counterpart, but all that remained when she looked upon his true person was fear. The anger surged within him as Malcolm approached, and he felt no remorse in striking him to the floor.

He knew he had to do something to show Greta she didn’t have to be scared, not of him – he’d get rid of that American bastard who had invaded their home. Her strangled scream when he drove the porcelain shard into the man’s neck confused and enraged him; why was she still acting this way? What more did she want him to do?

The fury had burned inside him like a furnace as he chased them through the house, through the walls, blinding his senses until he brought the pipe down on Malcom’s head, stilling him. His eyes had found Greta in the dark, her pale face stricken. He tried to speak in the voice she knew, the boy’s voice he had practiced over and over so his mother could pretend her sweet little boy was still with them, while his father tried to hide his discomfort. Brahms wasn’t sure which angered him most – his mother’s denial, his father’s revulsion, or the sycophancy of them both. They did everything for him, catered to his every whim, all in the hope that they wouldn’t have to face up to the monster they’d created – the beast who was forged in the flames.

He couldn’t retain it for long. Within two sentences his voice began to crack as he begged her – _commanded_ her – not to leave him, until he was screaming. Yet still she ran. Away from the house, and away from him.

It was despondence, not mercy, that compelled him to spare Malcolm’s life. He wanted to – he even raised the pipe – but the raging fire inside him seemed to have died. What was the point? Killing him wouldn’t bring her back, and it would just be another lure for the rats; another stain rotting on the bloodied Heelshire name.

He scarcely believed it when he saw her standing in the corridor, the light from the billiards room illuminating her pretty face as she gazed in on the corpse of her former lover. He’d been too entranced by her – the _scent_ of her like a siren’s song to his senses – to notice the fear trembling beneath the surface. She had come back for him, she was going to take care of him, just as she had promised right at the start.

_I’ll treat him like my own …_

The performance of being put to bed with such tenderness was so long forgotten that every move felt like walking on eggshells. His parents had avoided setting foot in his bedroom – his true room, not the immortalised childhood façade set up for his doll – except to bring him food, so the feeling of being tucked in felt as alien as dancing on the moon.

The moment her skin had touched the cold lips of his mask, something exploded inside him – a white-hot desire like nothing he’d ever known before. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her arms, pinning her to him as he inhaled her scent like oxygen. Oh, how he wanted her; and surely she must want him too; she came back, she wasn’t afraid of him like everyone else, she loved him …

That was when the screwdriver point pierced his gut and the world turned scarlet. All he knew was pain, rage and the bitterest disappointment. She had hurt him, so deeply he thought he might die from the suffering, confronted by the bitter truth that everything he’d done wasn’t enough. _He_ wasn’t enough.

He drags himself into a sitting position against the wall, fingers finding the shattered pieces of his mask and holding them like talismans to his chest. Alone, unloved, broken – Brahms lets the tears fall.


	2. Chapter 2

You don’t know how for long you’ve been walking. You don’t even know where you are. The time was 02:47 when your phone died. What time was it when you left the station? You don’t remember. You only had time to grab a handful of things before the crowd started gathering around the body.

The body you’d left there.

The rain is starting to come down in earnest now. You’re soaked to the bone and tired to the point of exhaustion, the soles of your shoes feeling ready to peel away at any moment. Part of you wants to simply curl up at the side of the road and sleep, hardly caring if the cold or a passing car takes you once your eyes close. How long would it be until the police found you?

You’d been as careful as you could on the journey to … wherever this was. You’d left your car at home, picked a train almost at random and bought a ticket to the end of the line. The sprawling metropolis of the city faded away to dark countryside, the lights of civilisation becoming more sporadic as you travelled deeper into rural England. You didn’t even recognise the name of the village as it flashed past the window. You pulled the hood of your jacket down further over your face as you left the carriage, but nobody stopped you or even glanced your way. It was nearing midnight – far too late to be paying attention to trainline stragglers. You could have hailed a taxi from the rank outside the station, asked the driver to drop you off as far as the cash in your pocket would allow, but that would be another person to remember your face, so you hitched your rucksack further up your shoulders and headed off into the misty night on foot.

The distant sound of an approaching engine sets your heart racing and your eyes dart through the drizzly gloom for a place to hide. The road forks not ten metres ahead, a narrower path leading off towards the left. You start to run, rucksack bouncing against your back, shoes slapping against the tarmac. The new path slopes uphill, but you keep running, until the surrounding trees start to thicken, and you feel suitably distanced from anyone who might be passing via the main road. The slim trunks give way to broad pines, casting thick beams of moonlight across the ground ahead of you. Shielded by the overhanging branches, the rain eases from a ceaseless torrent to heavy droplets, splashing down around you. As you were leaving the flat, you had the sense to grab the sleeping-bag you once used to go camping with your dad, but don’t want to stop and set up base just yet. Another mile or so away from the road and you should be good for now. Then, come the light of morning, you can take stock and decide what you’re going to do.

Maybe you shouldn’t have run. Guilty people always run, right? Maybe if you’d just stayed and explained what happened … but no, who would have listened? Who would have believed that an officer so upstanding and respected as your stepfather could be guilty of such a crime as attempted murder? It was what had kept your mother from reporting him for so long. He was clever – never bruising her in places it would easily show – but his rage towards you made him sloppy tonight. But even the bruises you’d seen around your little brother’s neck would not be evidence enough to condemn him, you knew that. The law would never act against one of their own, so you’d had to.

Which moment had made you a murderer? When you’d crossed the balcony to where he stood, puffing on one of those disgusting cigars like he hadn’t just tried to kill your brother? When your hands had pushed against the broad space of his back, catching him off balance and sending him stumbling over the rail? Or when his flailing body had landed with a sickening crunch on the pavement seventeen stories below?

Something large begins to loom out of the shadows ahead of you and you slow. It’s a set of huge, wrought-iron gates, supported by two intimidating brick pillars, open wide enough for a car to pass easily through. There’s no name or number, no indication as to what may lie beyond. Curiosity has always been your fatal flaw, so you approach, keeping an ear out for the sound of tires or footsteps. The house that awaits at the end of the long driveway is unlike any you’ve seen in the city or the surrounding boroughs; it’s tall and grand, the liquid light of dawn illuminating what seem to be turrets in the architecture. It’s beautiful, in an American gothic style of build. Certainly not the kind of English manor you’re used to in period dramas. The moment you stop before the front steps, your feet and calves begin screaming in protest, as though sensing the possibility of a place to rest. Even if you could just sit on the porch for a while, at least until the sun rose.

The moment your butt hits the floor, the weight of the last twenty-four hours’ events settles on you like a heavy blanket. You’re hungry, thirsty, but all you can think of doing right now is getting an hour or two of sleep. You unravel your sleeping bag and crawl inside, resting your shoes atop your folded jacket beside you. Your sodden T-shirt and jeans don’t make for very comfortable sleepwear, but you’re certainly not about to strip to your skivvies on some stranger’s porch, especially if the milkman may be along within the next couple of hours.

You sleep fitfully, the image of your stepfather’s face floating repeatedly to the surface of your mind like a photograph in water, and you’ll awake scared and sweating, despite the bone-chilling cold. The sun rises milky yellow just beyond the treeline, and you decide it must be late enough for you to risk knocking on the door. With any luck, they might be able to tell you how to reach the nearest village, where you can … you don’t know. Gathering your things, you shoulder your pack and approach the heavy wooden door, plucking the dampest patches of your T-shirt from your body.

You notice the door is open just as you raise your fist to knock. Perhaps they forgot to lock up last night – a huge house like this in the middle of nowhere, probably not much foot traffic to run the risk of burglars. You give a few loud knocks, anyway, but no response comes.

“Um, hello?” you call, pushing the door open just a little further.

The inside of the house is as impressive as its exterior, all dark wood and teal blue rugs, and quiet as a graveyard. There is a blanket of stillness everywhere, giving the place an air of abandonment. You walk further into the entrance hall, staring up the grand staircase to where a semi-circular balcony overlooks the lower floor.

“Hello?”

Nothing – no movement, no sound; not the grumbling of pipes nor the hum of a heating system. You drop your rucksack on the floor beside a great stone fireplace and take a few tentative steps up the stairs. As you reach the top, you notice a large portrait hanging on the opposite wall of three people – a man, a woman and a small, angelic-looking boy. You wonder if this is the family of the house.

“Hello?”

Your third attempt also goes unanswered and, with no cars parked outside and the open door, you’re convinced the place truly is empty, at least for now. Your feet make no sound on the carpet stair-runner as you descend, picking up your pack by one strap and going in search of the kitchen. It’s quite small and surprisingly modern for such a grand mansion and, with only the smallest twinge of guilt, you conceal some packaged foods from the cupboards and fridge in your pack. You pick an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and take a bite, the crunching of your jaw loud in the silent room. You didn’t realise just how hungry you were and tuck a second apple into your coat pocket. Through the window, you can see a rambling garden stretching out across the grounds, the grass and leaves tinted blue in the dawn light.

Leaving your pack by the front door, you decide to have a look around. A great house like this must have at least twenty rooms, and its unlikely you’ll get another chance to explore anywhere so richly furnished. You briefly wonder how far the behind you the police might be, but try to calm the panic that rises at that particularly thought. You’re no good half-dead on the run, and this might be your last safe space for a while.

Heading back upstairs, you decide to investigate the nearest bedroom. It looks like it might belong – or at least _once_ belonged – to a child, but there aren’t any toys you’d recognise from a modern child’s nursery. The clockwork figures and wooden mannequins look like objects from the 1950’s, as do the books on the shelves. Some of the toys are scattered over the floor by the bed, in contrast to the almost military neatness of the rest of the room, and one of the frames pictures is hanging askew on the wall. Almost automatically, you reach across and straighten it, and that’s when you see it – on the rug, a small, dark red stain, about the size of a side plate. A ripple of unease passes through you, though you know it could be something as innocuous as cranberry juice or ink. 

As you’re about to exit the room, you notice something else – one of the doors on the opposite side of the landing has a large hole through it. The edges are rough, as though someone had forced their fist through in an attempt to reach whoever was on the other side. You wonder if there _was_ some kind of a burglary, and you’re ten steps away from discovering the horribly mangled bodies of the man, woman and boy you saw in the portrait. Perhaps the assailant is still here, lurking behind one of these doors. Out of the corner of your eye, you see something a little unusual – on a large wooden trunk at the foot of the child’s bed is a long metal pipe with a curved end, kind of like the head of a harpoon. Picking this up, you venture out into the hall and move, as quietly as you can, towards the broken door. The room beyond is trashed – clothes scattered everywhere, and an old-fashioned telephone lying broken on the floor. The wardrobe door is standing open, and as you move closer, you see a strange panel standing open at the back. Glancing over your shoulder to make sure the room is still deserted, you push open the panel to reveal a passageway, just wide enough for a grown man to move through, built into the inside frame of the house. Part of you knows it would be an incredibly bad idea, but the other part of you that’s holding the makeshift weapon, allows your feet to lead you inside the secret passage.

The tunnel is dark and dusty, dimly illuminated by the light of the rooms outside and the occasional electric light bracketed to the brick interior. A couple of times, you come across large gaps in the walls, where the wooden slats have been shattered by a great force. By peeping through the slats, you can see exactly whereabouts in the house you are. After ten or so minutes of sneaking, you spy a bright shaft of electric light coming from beneath a door ahead of you. Like Alice venturing further down the rabbit hole, you reach out and push against the wood.


	3. Chapter 3

The room beyond is small and cluttered, and clearly designed for someone to live in. There’s a bed, fridge, microwave, and a work desk that’s littered with various tools and what look like medical instruments. A small bookcase holds various old volumes of comics and porno mags. The brick walls partially soundproofed with egg boxes, and from the ceiling hang what you think are … _bear traps_? On the bed is a strange cloth mannequin wearing a coral-pink dress and brown wig. The whole place feels … weird, and you’re just deciding it would probably be best to give this room a wide berth, and find a way out of the walls, when something grabs your arm.

You catch just a glimpse of the person standing behind you before you scream and stumble backwards onto the bed, the lumpy mattress sagging beneath you. Heart pounding, you focus on the man looming over you. He must be at least six-foot-three, with curly black hair and filthy clothes, but the most distinguishing feature is his face. Or rather, lack thereof. His face is shielded by a stained porcelain mask, designed like a china doll with painted lips. A weblike series of cracks spreads across one side, as though it’s been shattered and glued back together. A curly black beard sticks out from around the bottom of the mask, and a thatch of dark hair coats his chest and collarbones. He’s slim, but the mere size of him, plus his long-fingered hands, give off an air of immense strength.

Your breath shudders as he stares down at you, a cold wash of fear sweeping through your body. Gripping the metal rod in both hands, you prepare yourself for some form of attack. It wouldn’t take much effort for him to overpower you, though you do notice he has an injury to his abdomen, and take a mental note to focus on that if he tries to make a move.

“Who are you?!” you demand, trying to assert some kind of dominance in the situation. To your surprise, the sudden eruption of sound in the small room makes him jump, and he takes a step back away from you. A small portion of your fear siphons away, and you feel brave enough to rise to your feet.

For a moment, neither of you speak; then the tall man points at the weapon in your hands and says: “That’s mine.”

This time it’s your turn to be surprised. His voice is eerily high-pitched, like a child’s, and sends a chill down your spine.

“Not right now it isn’t,” you say.

He shifts the angle of his head a fraction to the left, as though confused by your response.

“Who are you?” you ask again.

Again, there’s a pause before he replies, again in that strange falsetto: “This is my house.”

“What’s your name?”

“… Brahms Heelshire.”

“Brahms? That’s an interesting name.” You start to slowly edge to the left, opening the space behind you.

Brahms’ gaze follows you, bright eyes behind the mask not leaving yours. “My mummy chose it.”

“That’s … nice.” A short flight of metal steps ascends back into the tunnel to your back, if you can just get one foot on it …

“Are you going to hurt me?”

The question catches you off-guard and for a second you freeze. This hulking wall of sweat, hair and sinew is honestly asking if you – _you_ – are going to hurt him. Then you remember the events that led you to discover this house in the first place and the question doesn’t seem so unusual.

“No.” You feel for the first step with your heel. “Are you … going to hurt me?”

He doesn’t reply, but you see his eyes drop to stare at your shuffling feet.

“Brahms?”

You’re conscious of the smell coming off him – a pungent odour of dried sweat and unwashed laundry. There’s a small shower unit in the corner of the annexe but he doesn’t seem to have used it for a while.

“Greta hurt me.”

You’re on the first step. He raises his head a gaze with yours but still doesn’t make a move to stop you.

“Who’s Greta?”

Behind the holes, his eyes could almost be described as sad. “My nanny.”

“Why did she hurt you?” Second step.

“I tried to stop her leaving. But she did anyway.”

He sounds to sad, so desolate, that you can’t help the gentle pulse of sympathy that enters your heart.

“When did she leave?”

His broad shoulders rise and fall in a loose shrug. You point at the bloody wound that has stained the fabric of his white sleeveless vest. “Did she do that to you?”

He nods.

“Must have hurt.”

He nods again. You’re on the fourth step, with four to go, and he’s having to tilt his head upwards to look at you, but still his arms stay resolutely at his sides. You wonder if he’s waiting for the right moment to strike, and tighten your grip on the rod a little more.

“I just wanted her to follow the rules.”

“What rules?”

Reaching slowly into the pocket of his slacks – his hand is shaking – he pulls out a sheaf of paper, folded into a square, and holds it out to you. You don’t really want to release your hold on the rod, but you’re too damn curious by this point to know more about this strange man in the walls. You take the paper and see it’s a list of ten rules:

1\. No Guests

2\. Never Leave Brahms Alone

3\. Save Meals in Freezer

4\. Never Cover Brahms’ Face

5\. Read a Bedtime Story

6\. Play Music Loud

7\. Clean the Traps

8\. Only Malcolm Brings Deliveries

9\. Brahms is Never to Leave

10\. Kiss Goodnight

It certainly looks like rules a nanny might follow when looking after a small child – save one or two oddities (why would anyone cover someone’s face?) – but were they really for this full-grown man?

“Your nanny was supposed to do all these for you?”

Brahms shifted, his attention drifting towards the desk of tools by the door. It’s then that you see it. Tucked in the shadows at the back of the workbench is a large doll, about the size of an eight-year-old child, with a white porcelain face very similar to the one Brahms is wearing over his own and wearing a navy sweater, white shirt and tie. You realise that the doll is an uncanny replica to the little boy in the portrait on the landing.

“Is the doll meant to be you?”

Brahms nods. “Mummy and Daddy said I couldn’t come out. I … did something bad. Then there was a fire. Mummy and Daddy said I would be safe in here. They said they would love my doll like it was me.”

“So … you just live here, in the walls?”

He nods again. “Mummy and Daddy are gone now.”

“And you’re all by yourself?”

Your right foot is poised on the fifth step, but you haven’t moved your other one. For some reason, your desire to leave is waning, little by little. The smallest idea is attempting to creep its way into your mind: what if you didn’t leave? If all it took was following this simple list of rules, who’s to say you couldn’t be Brahms’ nanny for a while? The house was far enough away from your own home that it could potentially take the police weeks to track you down here. And even if they did, what better hiding place than a labyrinth of hidden passages? You’d have to fix up the holes, but that was no bother. You’d always been good with your hands.

You take a deep breath. “Brahms, would you like me to stay here with you?”

He turns to gaze directly into your eyes.

“I need somewhere I can be safe for a while. If you let me stay, I’ll follow your rules. I could look after you.”

He nods. You smile.

“Okay. My name’s Y/N. Could you show me the way out of here?”

You don’t relinquish possession of the rod immediately, especially not as you follow his towering form through the passages, until he pauses in front of a large jagged hole in the wall. Pieces of shattered glass litter the carpet below, and you have to be careful where you stand as you clamber out through the broken mirror. Another suspicious-looking stain is smeared across the floor some yards away.

“What happened here, Brahms?” you ask, pushing aside some of the shards with your foot.

“The bad man came,” he says. His voice is quieter now, the trembling in his hands unmistakable. You wonder exactly how much blood he’s lost since sustaining his injury. “I stopped him. I cleaned up.”

Your gaze travels from the pool of what you’re now almost certain is blood, to Brahms’s expressionless face, to the large red letters daubed on the wall above his head: GET OUT.

You hope you haven’t made a big mistake.

Brahms collapses to the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

You fall to your knees beside him, grabbing his shoulder and pushing his curly hair from the cool porcelain of his forehead. “Brahms!”

At first, you think he hasn’t heard you, or no longer can, but after a moment his fingers twitch and his head moves a fraction upwards.

“Greta …?”

His voice is a broken mix of the chilling, childlike voice and one that could be called normal; the sort of voice you’d expect for a man of his age. Even in such pain as he must be in, the child’s voice seems too much of an engrained habit to break completely.

“No, Brahms, it’s me – Y/N. Can you stand?”

He makes no effort to do so, or even move. He simply raises his head a quarter-inch and whimpers. “Hurts …”

“Brahms, I need you to stand for me, okay? We need to get to the bathroom.”

Even if you can’t find any kind of First Aid equipment, the wound should be cleaned at least. You try to pull a little on his arm, but he angrily swats your hand aside. Well, if he was going to act like a kid, you were going to treat him like one.

“Brahms” you say, firmer this time. “I need you to be a good boy and do as I say.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he allows you to pull him gently to his feet. He staggers a little, his weight bearing down on you as you pull one of his arms over your shoulders. He’s so tall the action bends him almost double, but it’s all you can do. 

There’s a bathroom just down the hall, and by the time you reach it, he’s slumped almost completely over you, and you think your spine might have broken in three places. You manage to sit him on the closed toilet lid and begin filling the sink, soaking a clean washcloth in the hot water. You gently remove the filthy cardigan from his shoulders and can’t help but notice his forearms are as dark-haired as his chest. Despite the situation, you can’t deny his body is _very_ much your type (save for the gaping wound in his stomach). He allows you to pull down the straps of his braces, and then to lift the sweat-soaked sleeveless shirt underneath. You conduct a quick search of the bathroom cabinets and, by some insane stroke of luck, find a small green box marked with the recognisable white cross. 

Despite the ferocity with which the weapon has been plunged into him, the bleeding seems to have already stopped, having miraculously missed any of his organs. You reach into the sink for the washcloth and clean the congealed blood from around the wound. You pat the skin dry, daub on some antiseptic cream, and apply butterfly stitches to seal it as best you can. As you apply a large dressing over the mangled skin, you wish she could give him a proper wash all over, but don’t want to risk the wound opening up again.

“Alright,” you drag the back of your sleeve across your forehead. “I think that’s everything.”

Brahms doesn’t speak; he just stares at you with a watchful intensity, his eyes following your slightest movement. You rise awkwardly to your feet and, a moment later, so does Brahms. His hulking form towers over you, too close for you not to feel the heat radiating from his body. Another time, you might have wondered how it felt to be embraced by those strong arms, to feel protected by such an imposing man. In this one, however, you take a step back and fix your expression in what you hope is a reassuring smile.

“Does that feel better?” you ask brightly. Brahms tilts his head a micrometre to the left and doesn’t respond. It almost makes you wish for the childish voice, for as creepy as that was, it’s less unsettling than the silence.

“Well,” you swallow, your throat dry. “I dunno about you, but I could do with some shut-eye. You tired?”

As slow as pouring molasses, Brahms nods once.

“Stay with me,” he says. His voice is still soft, higher than what you suspect is his real one.

“Okay,” she said. “But I’m not sleeping in … in your room.”

The thought of sleeping in that tiny annexe doesn’t exactly appeal to you, not when there are so many grand bedrooms available.

“Mummy and Daddy’s room,” Brahms said. “I want to sleep there.”

The house’s master bedroom is by far grander than the others you pass as you follow him up the stairs, pausing to pick up your bag, keeping close in case he collapses again. The huge four-poster bed is hung with rich velvet curtains, and an elaborately carved vanity stands at one end beneath a large antique painting of a hunting scene – men and women in red coats astride black horses, a crowd of dogs gathered at their hooves.

Brahms waits patiently by the bed until you pull back the heavy covers and tuck him in. It’s a little strange to be doing this for an adult, but you don’t really mind. It’s no different really from putting your mother to bed after she’d drowned her troubles in too much booze. There’s an antique armchair in the corner of the room, a woollen blanket draped over its back. You wrap the blanket around yourself and move to curl up in the chair.

“Y/N.”

Brahms is sitting up in bed, staring at you. You can’t quite see his face in the shadow of the bed’s canopy, but his black eyes catch the glint of the dawn through the window.

“I’ll sleep here,” you say. You’re not quite ready to share a bed with such an unusual stranger just yet.

The silence is so absolute, you hear Brahms’s fists clench against the duvet.

“No.”

“Brahms, it’s alright, I’m not going to—”

“No!”

A thin stream of ice enters your veins as the tone of his voice roughens, the hot-blooded man breaking through the childish façade. He moves as though to get out of bed, and you jump quickly to your feet.

“Okay, okay,” you hold up your hands and approach the bed, watching carefully as Brahms eases his legs back beneath the covers. “But I’m sleeping on top.” 

You climb onto the other side of the bed, atop the duvet, keeping as much distance as you can between yourself and the shirtless man lying beside you. The sheets aren’t thick, but it’s enough to feel some form of barrier between the two of you.

“Kiss.”

Rule number ten: Kiss Goodnight.

You lean down and gingerly press your lips against the porcelain cheek proffered to you, not feeling his arm sneakily wind about your waist until it tightens when you try to move away.

“Brahms—”

“Don’t go,” he says, half pleading, half commanding. “Stay with me.”

“I _will_ stay, Brahms. I just … I need to sleep.”

“Sleep here.”

Admitting defeat, you lie down where he has you caught. Brahms’s arms around you feel strong and somehow safe, in the way his large body dwarfs yours. He still smells terrible, but you’re too bone-tired to care. Part of you expects to feel his hands straying to where you’d rather they didn’t but, within ten minutes, his breathing seems to have deepened enough for you to believe him truly asleep. Your body and mind eventually succumb to sheer exhaustion, and you feel yourself drifting slowly off with him.


End file.
